


A Simply Connected Space

by neierathima



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: First Time, Frottage, M/M, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-10-10
Packaged: 2017-11-16 01:56:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/534189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neierathima/pseuds/neierathima
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Realizations hit when Derek gets hurt. Then all that's left is to do something about it, and sometimes words are superfluous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Side

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rocketpool](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rocketpool/gifts).



> This is havenward's fault. I showed her this: http://another-silly-blog.tumblr.com/post/32009037394 and then said I should write porn based off it. And then it all kind of got out of hand. But she beta'd as well as enabled so I guess it's ok.
> 
> First chapter is Stiles' version of events, second chapter is Derek's.

Derek is hurt again and Stiles is the one to figure out where he is first, of course. He rushes in, intent on saving the day but instead of the usual "bleeding all over the floor" it's... [ Derek half naked, arching his back, the noises coming out of him raw and almost obscene.](http://another-silly-blog.tumblr.com/post/32009037394) Stiles knows it isn’t like that. He knows Derek is in pain and not in control of himself and Derek hates that. Stiles hates it too. He should not be thinking filthy, dirty things. Except then Derek sits up, and he is so clearly out of it, whatever the hunters gave him has fucked him up. Derek leans forward, scenting the air, like he always does, and Stiles realizes Derek _knows_.  
  
He really needs to stop thinking about it right now but Derek isn't wearing a shirt and he's covered in sweat and everything is getting out of hand. But Derek isn’t in his right mind. He's _drugged_. And Stiles will not be that guy, he won't, even if Derek looks like he's about to beg for it. So Stiles gets him out of there and into the jeep, getting him on lockdown somewhere safe until they can get the antidote. And if Stiles dumps Derek off on the other wolves the moment they're sure he isn't dying so he can speed home way too fast to get a little alone time? That's nobody’s business but his.  
  
He's trying to get the image out of his head for the next few days and staying as far away from the wolves and their stupid noses as he can. But as soon as his dad is working a night shift, he lays on his bed, shirt off but jeans still on, arching his back and not touching himself, just _remembering_. It’s supposed to between him and the wall, except that when he opens his eyes, Derek is standing just inside the window, tongue flicking out to lick his lips.  
  
Derek doesn't move away from the window as Stiles slides down to sit at the end of the bed. It's only when Stiles reaches a hand out that Derek takes the few steps to stand in front of him, fitting into the space between Stiles' thighs, not touching. He thinks that if this was a different place, a different moment, he wouldn't have the courage.  
  
But it's quiet and Derek is in front of him and Stiles finds himself wanting to be reverent. Or something. He reaches out, pushes up Derek's shirt so he can lean his forehead against Derek's abs, inhaling. Clean skin and musk. Loam, because Derek is always outside, running. Citrus, because Derek tears into oranges and grapefruits and even lemons and limes before wiping the stickiness off on his shirt. Stiles wonders what he could smell if he was a wolf. He opens his eyes. Lets himself look, lets himself see the evidence that Derek is just as hard as Stiles is himself.  
  
Stiles nuzzles into the soft hair on Derek's belly, letting himself have more of that scent. He brings his hands up, but Derek catches his wrists before they touch his chest. Stiles lets his whole body go slack, Derek holding him up at his hands, his head limp against Derek’s stomach. He tightens his knees around Derek's legs. Derek has him, but he has Derek, too.  
  
He doesn't know what the next step is, but he doesn't want to say anything and break the mood. He doesn’t want to mess this up. Derek gets it, he must, because he pushes Stiles back until he's laying on the bed then moves to straddle his thighs. Derek pulls off his shirt and that's good; they're in the same place now. Stiles wonders if Derek is trying to tell him something with that, but he can't think because Derek is shirtless and warm and here, in Stiles' bed. His territory.  
  
His turn, again, and he gets his hand on Derek's shoulder, pulls him down so he can brush his cheek to Derek's stubble. It feels good, if maybe not like he imagined. Skin catching, the drag of it irregular and the bones of their faces knock together. Derek pushes his face into Stiles', and maybe this is weird. Maybe this isn't what people do, but now Derek is moving down to his neck and Stiles can't help it. The rough brush of it on his skin has him letting out a moan.  
  
Derek lets out a sound in response that's not entirely human, and then there are teeth against Stiles' neck- flat, human teeth, not biting, just bare against his throat. It's unexpected and hot, and Stiles' hips jerk up, brushing against Derek's above him. Derek pulls back a little, breathing hard. Stiles is breathing hard too. He thinks they’re both on the edge of getting ahead of each other, of missing something important, because he doesn't know what he wants to happen right now. He wants Derek to touch him. He wants to touch Derek, possibly everywhere. He wants Derek to trust him, he wants them to curl around each other and be warm.  
  
He doesn't say any of that, just loops an arm around Derek's neck and pulls himself up. Lets Derek take his weight. Keeps his teeth to himself and licks a wet strip under Derek's chin.  
  
Derek huffs out something that's cousin to a laugh and lowers them both to the bed. They're pressed together, chest to chest, legs twined. Erections rubbing together between two layers of jeans, and suddenly he can't stand the idea of clothes. He lets Derek go to tug at their pants. Derek tries to help, and there's a playful struggle that ends with Stiles pinned, again, this time with nothing between them.  
  
Stiles goes from feeling still and quiet to hot and hungry all at once. His motions are frantic, out of control, as he claws at Derek's back, thrusting up, biting at Derek's neck, rubbing every inch of skin he can against Derek. He feels wild, mad with it. He can hear himself, loud into the space between them, whimpering and moaning and whining high in the back of his throat. Derek was hurt, dying, and now he's here and Stiles has to keep him. He wants to shove his way inside of Derek, cover Derek in marks so everyone will see. So that no one will touch Derek but him. He feels like if he could just touch every part of Derek right now then Derek will stay. Or stay safe.  
  
Above him Derek is slow, implacable, controlled. He holds Stiles down with his weight, lets Stiles spend all his energy into him, patiently meeting Stiles' movements with his own even rhythm. Derek sucks unhurried marks into the skin below his mouth when it comes close enough. Stiles can’t figure out why Derek isn’t falling apart. He shakes his head, gasping what little breath he has left into Derek’s chest, trying to beg with his body. In response, Derek’s eyes shine red and he shoves Stiles down hard, letting out a low growl right next to his ear. It’s aching and pleased and the opposite of a threat but Stiles freezes, every muscle going tense and then loose as he comes. He's still riding it out as Derek ruts into him once, then again, and comes, still growling.  
  
He should move. Or say something. But he just lies there, Derek heavy on top of him, warm and sure. It's Derek who reaches off the side of the bed to get his shirt, wiping them both off with it before maneuvering Stiles under the blankets. Stiles stays loose limbed, letting Derek position him before he crawls in with him. They lay together, face to face, foreheads pressed together, hands and knees fitting together like a puzzle. Two of Derek's fingers are tracing patterns into the skin of Stiles’ side, and one of Stiles' hands is cupped over Derek's heart. Derek's eyes are green again, no trace of red left.  
  
Stiles doesn't mean to, but he says _you haven't even kissed me_. It's the first thing either of them has said all night. Stiles is expecting it to ruin this, like his words always seem to, but Derek smiles. Not wide, but honest, and his eyes are bright. He leans forward, pressing his lips to Stiles’ mouth. It's as earnest and pure as everything else had been, and Stiles opens under it. They trade kisses for a few minutes before one or both of them pull back. They sleep like that, tangled together, close enough to share breath.


	2. B Side

There’s something mixed in with the wolfsbane and it burns, running through him. Burns and devours and he writhes, hating how his body isn’t in his control and trying to move with it and through it. He’s alone and he’s dying and he feels like a cornered animal.  
  
Stiles is there, suddenly because he can’t fucking smell or hear or _think_ , but not unexpectedly, because Stiles is always there when he’s hurt. He can smell Stiles’ want, is sure it’s for him this time and he’s humiliated by how much he likes that even as he’s twisting in pain. He realizes he’d let Stiles do anything right now just to keep chasing that scent at the same time that he realizes Stiles wouldn’t.  
  
Not then, but maybe later. He tries not to think about it while he’s healing, curled in his own bed which smells of nothing but him and the remembered scent of ash and family. Tries not to but does, scratching at it like a wound he doesn’t want to heal while he shakes his way through the poison.  
  
Several days later Stiles’ father is on a night shift, and maybe that Derek knows that is telling, but he’s healed and still can’t put it out of his mind. Stiles has been avoiding them, and it can’t be normal again until he returns. He won’t come on his own, so Derek runs a familiar path through the woods to stand beneath Stiles’ window.  
  
He can smell Stiles and the house is dark. He should leave, text, try again in the morning: anything but climb through the open window. He does anyway, and he’s not even over the sill when he sees Stiles on the bed, half naked, not touching himself, pushing soft sounds through clenched teeth. He wonders if that’s what he looked like, if that’s _exactly_ what he looked like. He sees it, but it doesn’t make any sense.  
  
Stiles looks up, then, and now it will make sense. Stiles will tell him why, or tell him to go, and either way that will be the end of it. He waits to be told what they are today, but Stiles says nothing, simply stretches an open hand out to him.  
  
He goes to Stiles, standing before him, waiting for an explanation. Still, still Stiles says nothing, only pushes up his shirt to lean in and scent. He thinks he should be jealous that Stiles always knows what to do, but he needs Stiles to know so he isn’t. Stiles’ inhales loudly and it’s that sound which makes him hard. Stiles’ heartbeat isn’t fast like fear, but it’s pounding heavily in his ears. Derek wants to set his mouth to Stiles’ neck and feel that beat with his tongue.  
  
He catches Stiles’ hands reflexively, before he consciously notices them come up, so distracted by all the little noises Stiles makes. He expects Stiles to pull away again, finally, but instead Stiles goes limp into his care.  
  
He should walk away right now, because Stiles’ trust is so misplaced. Stiles’ legs tighten around Derek’s and he decides to stay. Either Stiles is the smart one, is right to trust him, or he’s a fool and every time before this has been nothing but luck.  
  
He doesn’t really believe in good luck, anyway. He lets himself believe that Stiles trusts him, and then it’s easy, like slipping off a heavy jacket he doesn’t need, to let himself trust Stiles back. Or to trust himself, and the confusion, the weight, is edging back at the corners so Derek shoves Stiles down, gently, and pins him with his weight.  
  
Stiles reaches up, rubs their faces together and he gives himself over to the touch. They drag together, skin catching and scent spreading, and when Stiles whimpers Derek can’t help it, he presses his open mouth to Stiles’ throat. He catches himself before he can bite and their breathing is obscenely loud when he gives himself some space. His instincts are calling out for him to take everything, because it’s his, isn’t it? It could all be his.  
  
Stiles would let him. Derek wraps himself in that thought, telling himself to be careful, slow, safe. Nothing that would hurt Stiles. Who laps at his chin, offering anything, and it’s the trust that finally makes him believe Derek might be worthy of it.  
  
He lets Stiles take some of his weight, feeling each other out with their bodies, until Stiles starts squirming and he has to back off to get them both out of their jeans. Stiles pushes at him and he pushes back, mock-growling through a smile when he finally has Stiles pinned naked to the bed.  
  
Then Stiles becomes wild, clawing scratches that Derek can feel healing under Stiles’ fingers, bites that he can’t concentrate enough to let stay, all of it directionless and seeking. It’s so arousing but it makes it easier to control himself, somehow. Stiles needs and Derek gives, keeping a rhythm that Stiles unconsciously starts to match. When Stiles’ skin comes close enough Derek lets himself taste and mark. Stiles is easy to enjoy like this.  
  
Derek knows there’s nothing he wouldn’t let Stiles have right now, but when Stiles keens and presses hard into his chest, he’s still surprised. Derek knows his eyes are red when he lets himself be just a little rough, growling his pleasure into the curve of Stiles’ neck, because how could Stiles not know? Stiles goes shock still and he has a half second to worry, but then Stiles is coming. Derek loses control then, anchored in Stiles, who is perfect like this, mouth still open and eyes locked on him. Derek knows he’s rutting into the soft skin of Stiles’ stomach, freshly wet with come, and he made that happen. He made Stiles feel good.  
  
Derek wants to stay there, laid out on top of Stiles, but the air is too cool on his back and he knows he must be heavy. He reaches for a shirt, finds his first then drops it in favor of Stiles’. Derek grins into the dark with anticipation of Stiles reaction. Stiles shivers as Derek’s cleaning them both, so he pushes out the bedding from under Stiles. Derek manages to get Stiles under the blankets, though Stiles remains an unhelpful pile of limbs. Derek’s working himself up to thinking he should leave again, old doubts crawling in from the dark corners of the room, but Stiles’ expression is open and hopeful. Whatever comes out of Stiles mouth, Stiles’ face gives everything away, and right now it’s saying Derek should stay. So he does.  
  
He isn’t very good at sleeping with people, but Stiles finds all the places they have room to give and makes them fit together. He’s on the edge of sleep, letting himself enjoy the feel of Stiles’ skin under his fingertips, mapping out freckles and rough patches, when Stiles says _you haven’t even kissed me_.  
  
It’s perfect, and Derek smiles -- because they are people, humans who kiss each other. And Stiles is so good at figuring out the right thing to say when someone needs it. Then Derek kisses Stiles, because what else can he do? He wants to; Stiles wants him to. It is, at just this moment, simple. Stiles meets him equally. They kiss, with long pauses to breathe and grin at each other, until Stiles starts to drift off between one kiss and the next. Derek lets Stiles sleep but he stays awake a little longer, watching. Listening to the sound of Stiles breathing and smelling the two of them together, safe and warm and not alone.


End file.
